


And I press you to the pages of my heart

by alterocentrist



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22500841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alterocentrist/pseuds/alterocentrist
Summary: Love is about remembering.What happened in those in-between years, when Héloïse was away?An epilogue toI can tell you, the telling gets old.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 261





	And I press you to the pages of my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Celine Sciamma said that she wanted to explore the possibility of friendship after a relationship. I said, "Challenge accepted."
> 
> The title is from Carly Rae Jepsen's "Want You in My Room".

_ Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out. _

_ – The Book Thief _ , Markus Zusak

* * *

“You know what I hate? When people say, ‘Oh, the only fault in this story is that there’s a small scene that’s a little cliché. It seemed really fresh, and then I see that scene and feel a bit disappointed that they’ve recycled it from something else,’” Héloïse began. “When they say that, most of the time, ninety- _ nine  _ percent of the time, it’s not even a  _ cliché _ . It’s a  _ trope _ . They recognised a trope! And good on them for recognising one! Maybe they’ll realise that all stories are fundamentally the same -”

“But you can’t blame people for wanting things that are different, at least on a surface level,” Daniel said, cutting her off mid-rant.

Héloïse wrinkled her nose. “Hannah, how many new Marvel movies are coming out in the next five years?” she asked.

Hannah considered it. “I don’t know off the top of my head. Like, a dozen?”

Héloïse looked at Daniel pointedly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Daniel said, sighing. “I meant that when people can see tropes coming, and when creators make no effort to subvert them or to at least make them a little unpredictable, that’s when they dislike it. And I can’t blame them, because that  _ is  _ what cliché is.”

“I still think we need to make a greater effort to have this, like...” Héloïse tried to find the right word. English was difficult sometimes, especially during discussions like this, this early on a Saturday morning. “To teach people this knowledge of why stories resonate with us, why we have such an emotional response to them. I think we lack this,” she snapped her fingers, “literacy?”

Hannah leaned forward. “I know where you’re coming from, and believe me, I think education systems around the world  _ do  _ try, but how many jokes do you get on the internet about what it means to have blue curtains in a novel? I believe humans as individuals are hardwired to overanalyse, but  _ society  _ discourages it, for all sorts of different reasons.”

“Like?” Daniel prompted.

“Like capitalism, for one,” Hannah said with a shrug.

Daniel laughed. “There it is!” he exclaimed. “President of Berkeley’s DSA.”

“Vice-president,” Hannah corrected.

The side door swung open and Alice walked in, water bottle in hand, her pink t-shirt stained with sweat. She kicked off her sneakers and collapsed on the nearest empty chair. “Five miles,” she panted, as a response to the wordless questions of her housemates. She lifted up her t-shirt to her face to wipe her sweat, and then examined the expressions of the people around her. “You guys were in the middle of yet another discussion I obviously missed,” she said. “Quick recap? Hannah?”

“Hey, how come you never ask me or Héloïse for a recap?” Daniel demanded.

Hannah smirked at him. “You’re both too long-winded.”

“Hey!” Héloïse and Daniel protested.

Héloïse finished the last of her coffee. “Okay, I made breakfast, so you guys clean up here,” she said. “I’m going for a walk.” She grabbed her bag and put on her shoes and jacket. Waving goodbye to her housemates, she exited through the front door and walked out to the footpath. It was an overcast April day, but at least it was noticeably warmer. Spring was trying its best to crack through Evanston’s tireless winter, and it was the first week since November that Héloïse was able to put away her parka.

She ended up at the record store. Vinyl was making a small comeback, but CDs were hardly touched. Héloïse didn’t have a record player, so she browsed the CDs. She wasn’t intending on buying anything, mostly because she didn’t want to accumulate possessions, as she had to leave Evanston one day, but once in a while, she indulged herself. She flipped through the S section until she found what she was looking for. She paid for it and began the twenty-minute walk back home.

Once she got back home, she went into her bedroom and opened her laptop. She started writing an email, not bothering with the pleasantries:

_ I don’t know if you’ve already listened to Sufjan Stevens’ new album  _ Carrie & Lowell _. It’s most likely you have; you were the one who introduced me to him! Anyway, I bought it today and I’m planning to listen to it for the first time. If you have heard it already, do email me your thoughts. I’d love to know them. _

_ Héloïse _

She read over it quickly before sending it to Marianne. She ripped open the CD’s plastic shrinkwrap, placed the CD in her stereo, and pressed play. The album opened with a tinny, high-pitched guitar arpeggio.

* * *

Having arrived halfway through the first year, Héloïse took a while to warm to Evanston. She lived alone in an apartment that first semester, and spent most of her time catching up on the semester that she had missed, so that she could take the first-year exams at the same time as everyone else in her cohort. She didn’t even return to France for the summer break. She found this unexpectedly challenging. She knew the winters would be harsher than they were in Paris, but she found them bearable, even beautiful. It was the ferocity of summer that blindsided her. It was hot and humid and cruel, with none of the idyllic laziness of Héloïse’s summers in Brest. There was a reason that literature romanticised European summers over midwestern American ones.

It wasn’t just the summer that she found difficult, but other things, too. Things she didn’t predict. Héloïse was comfortable with the difficulty of the coursework, and she relished in the reading and writing, but oral discussion in English, with a bunch of mostly native speakers, was difficult. They spoke faster and simpler than Héloïse thought they would, and even if they had read all the same books and all the same theorists, they seemed cleverer, because they didn’t need the additional step of translating abstract ideas into another language before having to open their mouths. 

Furthermore, Héloïse found that while Americans liked to eat and cook, they didn’t necessarily think about what they were eating or cooking. The standards for meat and produce in America was markedly lower than what she was accustomed to in France for the same price point. She made the best of what she could find and wondered how other people coped.

That first September in Evanston came, and with it, the briefest autumn that Héloïse had experienced before the city barrelled straight back into winter. She completed her first-year exams and scored highly. She also started making friends.

Héloïse had friends, as a teenager in Brest and as a student at the Sorbonne, but they were more a disjointed collection of people she had drinks, marijuana and a social cigarette with, rather than a  _ group _ . She spent one-on-one time with people, and always had people to hang out with in bars and clubs, but she didn’t see herself as the kind of person who needed a bunch of others to rely on. She preferred her own company most of all. Being alone in a foreign country for five years, however, was a more unpleasant concept.

She found herself in an odd quartet with fellow students from her comparative literature programme. It was the first time in her life where she felt part of a solid group, in a way that if she wasn’t around them, she was sure that they would talk about her fondly. There was Daniel, who was from Philadelphia, who described his family as “secular Jews”, and spent his undergrad years as a reviewer for his university newspaper. He did English, French and German, just like Héloïse, but wanted to focus his research on films, rather than books. Outdoorsy Alice was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, and was Native American on her father’s side. Evanston was her first experience living outside of the west coast. She was the only classicist of their little group, and when pressed, admitted that she preferred the Latin texts over Greek. And then there was Hannah, third-generation Japanese-American from Honolulu, who grew up on a surfboard and became obsessed with science fiction as a preteen, eventually moving on to reading it in Japanese and Russian. 

Out of the three of them, Hannah was the one who Héloïse clicked with immediately. They loved the water and read most things they got their hands on. Like her, Hannah was an eager cook who lamented the contents of Evanston’s supermarkets. Hannah taught her how to eat ramen, how to make teriyaki sauce from near-scratch, and how to pack onigiri for lunch. It was Hannah who lent Héloïse her copy of  _ Starlight 2 _ . In that anthology, Héloïse discovered Ted Chiang’s “Story of Your Life”, which inspired her to focus her dissertation on how different literary traditions treated the passage of time.

“Like, thematically?” Hannah had asked her.

“No. Grammar and syntax,” Héloïse had replied.

Hannah had grinned at her. “ _ Awesome _ .”

And it  _ was _ awesome. It was exactly the kind of pedantic, hair-splitting subject that Héloïse gravitated towards.

Before they went away for the summer, the four of them decided to find a house to rent together for the following academic year. They moved into a two-storey, four-bedroom house at the end of August. Hannah had found it for them. It once belonged to an esteemed Russian literature professor who had left it in the care of his colleagues upon his death, legally binding them to lease it to grad students at an affordable rate. They were all pleased to find that the house had a well-equipped kitchen and two living rooms, the smaller of which was quickly designated as a reading room. They filled the rooms with books and mismatched furniture. Héloïse and Hannah stocked the pantry and refrigerator with staples, while Daniel and Alice disappeared for half a day and returned with a trailer of potted indoor plants, which they proceeded to scatter around the house. It was the stuff of a young academic’s dreams, being away from home and being surrounded by people who lived and breathed literature. Héloïse was happy. Every day she read and wrote and talked about stories that she was passionate about. And she was even happier because she had found people who would also do nothing else but spend their time the same way.

Yet, if she thought about who her closest friend was, she would still choose Marianne.

They emailed regularly. At least once a week, but often more than that. They sent messages on WhatsApp, too, but found that they preferred being able to type out their thoughts in a longer format, unencumbered by touchscreen keyboards. They fell into an easy friendship, which surprised Héloïse. She couldn’t forget the intensity of her feelings for Marianne during their brief time together in Brest. She couldn’t forget how  _ brief  _ that time actually was. And yet, they exchanged thoughts like it was the most natural thing in the world. Héloïse imagined it to be the opposite, that if she had to put a cork on her feelings for someone, it would be harder to be friends with them, because she would be unable to think and feel so openly around them, but she considered Marianne her best friend. 

* * *

After the symposium in Lyon, Héloïse’s mother told her that Marianne’s family had invited the two of them to spend the Christmas holidays in their Paris mansion.

Héloïse flew to Paris when the university went into recess. Her flight landed just before midday on Christmas Eve. A driver picked her up and took her to Marianne’s family’s gated estate, the centrepiece of which was a restored eighteenth century mansion. The mansion’s interior was refurbished with modern fixings, and decorated with tasteful art throughout. It was the finest of what new money could buy.

She was greeted first by Marianne’s father, a portly man who shared her thick head of dark hair, though his was flecked with grey.

“Héloïse!” he exclaimed, after kissing her on both cheeks. “I have heard so much about you, from my daughter and from your mother. I feel like I know you already!” He directed the housekeeper to show Héloïse to her bedroom. “You should rest. You’ve had such a long trip,” he suggested. “Marianne is out with friends at the moment. I’m sure she will have returned by the time you wake up.”

It was dinnertime when Héloïse got out of bed. She went downstairs and was immediately embraced by her mother.

“Did you have a good flight?” her mother asked.

“Yes,” Héloïse said. She looked over her mother’s shoulder, and spotted Marianne, playing with three dark-haired children who could only be her nephew and nieces. She had let her hair grow out from the pixie cut she had in March, and it looked comically similar to her father’s hairstyle.

Héloïse’s mother followed her gaze. “She’s been asking after you,” she told Héloïse.

“Has she?”

“She’s a lovely girl. I’m happy that you two are staying in touch,” her mother said.

A bearded man came up to them and introduced himself as Marianne’s older brother. He offered Héloïse a glass of wine, which she accepted.

“Héloïse.” Marianne, the children following close, stood in front of her. She smiled and placed her hands on Héloïse’s shoulders as she gave her a kiss on each cheek. She then introduced her nephew and nieces, who waved shyly in response.

Dinner was a lively affair, with plenty of food, wine and stories to go around. Héloïse knew that Marianne was the third of four children. Her older sister had three kids, whom Héloïse had met earlier, while her older brother had twins, still babies. Marianne’s younger brother, the family’s youngest, was the only one working in the film industry, and still lived with their parents. The other son lived in Paris with his family, and the eldest daughter married a Belgian man, and their family lived in Antwerp.

Héloïse also met Marianne’s mother, a good-humoured woman who matched her husband’s raucous wit. Marianne inherited her eyes.

After dinner, everyone lounged around in the large living room. The children played with Lego. The brothers, along with their brother-in-law, were swapping stories. Héloïse’s mother was in conversation with Marianne’s sister and sister-in-law. Héloïse herself was talking to Marianne’s father, when Marianne and her mother interrupted them.

Marianne took her by the arm and led her to the other side of the room. “I hope Papa wasn’t boring you.”

“He couldn’t  _ possibly _ ,” Héloïse said. They sat together on a loveseat by a window. “Your family is wonderful.”

“It helps that we all live apart, except for him, of course.” Marianne nodded towards her younger brother. “But he’s the baby of the family, what can he do?” She looked at Héloïse. “What was your family like?”

“Maman always tried to put on a show, but Papa didn’t care much for it. And my sister only got busier and busier. It’s nice, really, to see a family like this,” Héloïse said.

“It’s not perfect.” Marianne pointed subtly at her mother and father, who were frowning at each other. “See, they’re arguing already. You know that old joke about how women say twice as many words as men, because men don’t listen?” She shot a pointed glance towards her parents.

“Your mother looks like she could handle herself,” Héloïse remarked.

Their conversation slipped back into a familiar rhythm, as if picking up where they left off in their last emails. Héloïse asked Marianne about work, about her friend’s band that had a last-minute reunion show a couple of nights before, and about Marianne’s latest  _ Marie Claire  _ cover. In turn, Marianne asked Héloïse about her dissertation, and her housemates, and the Evanston winter.

“Take me on a tour of your house,” Héloïse said.

Marianne raised an eyebrow. “Papa didn’t do one when you arrived?”

“I think he wanted  _ you  _ to show me around.”

Marianne led Héloïse around the mansion, which had seven bedrooms, all with ensuites, and a small library, a basement cinema, and a two-bedroom guest house. They eventually ended up in Marianne’s childhood bedroom, which was now furnished to occasionally accommodate her as an adult.

They sat on the edge of Marianne’s bed and continued talking. There was no limit to their conversation. It was fluid and meandering, hopping from one subject to another, barely pausing in between. It was invigorating, in ways so similar yet so different from her graduate seminars. In her most private thoughts, Héloïse often likened Marianne to a book she couldn’t stop reading, a research topic that she barely scratched the surface of. Nothing excited her more than the prospect of more learning, particularly when it came to learning about Marianne. Perhaps, her excitement was even greater.

Marianne dug into the side pocket of her duffel bag. She pulled out a copy of  _ Stories of Your Life and Others _ and waved it at Héloïse, smiling.

Héloïse smiled back at her and reached for the book. “You got around to reading it,” she said.

“Yup,” Marianne said.

“What did you think?” Héloïse opened to the page where “Story of Your Life” began.

Marianne shrugged. “It’s a lovely story. Poignant. But the science fiction aspects get a little confusing.” When Héloïse prompted her to continue, she cleared her throat. “The narrator talks about the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis. I looked into it more after reading it, and it’s…” she snapped her fingers as she considered her words, “It’s mystical, isn’t it? Not exactly scientific.”

“That’s true,” Héloïse said. “There isn’t a way to actually prove it.”

“But this story attempts to.”

Héloïse frowned. “I’m not sure we’re meant to see it that way. I think it  _ creates  _ a world where it’s beyond a hypothesis. It’s still fiction,” she said. “I’m not the biggest science fiction reader, you know, but I think this story really captures what can be great about the genre… It can be an exploration of how people react to and use something that we didn’t think could exist. It projects human nature in extraordinary, extranormal situations.”

“Like how our understanding of time can change with our understanding of language,” Marianne said. The corners of her mouth quirked, the way that they did when she was about to tease Héloïse: “So, are you going to be proving or disputing the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis in your dissertation?”

“Do you think they’d give me a prize if I did?” Héloïse fired back.

A phone rang.

It wasn’t Héloïse’s, as she knew she had left it in her bedroom.

Marianne fished hers out of her jeans pocket. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she said. She got to her feet and stood by the window, phone to her ear. “Hello? Catherine?”

Héloïse stood up as well. She closed the book and placed it on Marianne’s bedside table. She then busied herself by poking around Marianne’s bathroom, and then she started browsing the books of photography in the small bookcase on the other side of the room.

Marianne got off the phone. “Sorry about that,” she said.

“Work calling?” Héloïse asked.

“No,” Marianne replied, shaking her head. She swallowed, then her eyes met Héloïse’s. “Catherine is my…” she hesitated. “I guess she’s my girlfriend. It’s still fairly new. Papa and Maman don’t even know yet.”

“Oh, that’s great!” Héloïse said, trying her best to smile. She didn’t feel that she had any right to be upset. Marianne had mentioned that she had been going on dates, and Héloïse had been determined to feel okay about that. Marianne had even been kind enough to spare her the details of the dates, even if she was under no obligation to. Had Héloïse even been in a relationship with Marianne? Could they even be considered  _ exes _ ? Her grip tightened on the Henri Cartier-Bresson hardcover she had been flipping through. “I’m seeing someone as well.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Her name is Dempsey. She’s doing her doctorate at Northwestern as well, in political science,” Héloïse said.  _ Seeing  _ her was an overstatement. That was why Héloïse saw no reason to mention her before. On first impressions, Dempsey was even more intense and standoffish than Héloïse, and liked her company best with drinks, heated intellectual discussion, and sex. Very good, regular sex, but that was the extent of what Dempsey seemed to be available for.

“Dempsey?” Marianne’s nose crinkled in amusement. “That’s such an  _ American  _ name.”

“She went to boarding school and I  _ did  _ meet her playing tennis, so…”

Marianne laughed. And then she kept laughing. She couldn’t seem to stop.

Héloïse shifted her weight from one foot to another, not exactly sure what to think about the laughing fit that Marianne had gotten herself into. “Uh, so Catherine… What’s she like? What does she do?” she asked.

Marianne managed to collect herself enough to answer: “She’s a physiotherapist for the football club.”

“Oh.” Héloïse nodded rapidly. “Good hands.”

At this, Marianne burst into another fit of laughter. “Dempsey!” she squeaked out. “Mon dieu! Did she play, what do you call it...” She made a peculiar motion with her arms. “That sport with the baskets.”

“Lacrosse,” Héloïse offered.

“Yes! Does she do that?” Marianne asked.

“No, but she used to ride horses.”

Marianne gasped a couple of times to catch her breath. “I was going to ask you why you had kept her a secret, but I think I understand.”

Héloïse wanted to tell her that she didn’t understand at all. Instead, she pushed the Cartier-Bresson book back in its place.

* * *

Winter in Evanston was particularly bitter when Héloïse returned from France after New Year's Day. She didn’t complain out loud, but listened to Hannah voicing similar sentiments, having just spent the holidays with her family in Honolulu.

Daniel had arrived there a couple of days before they did. Apparently the weather was worse in Philadelphia. Alice was just grateful that in Evanston, it wasn’t raining constantly.

Héloïse returned to her routine. She taught her classes and went to her seminars. She continued working on her dissertation. At home, she cooked for her housemates. When everyone got sick of their academic work, they had drinks and watched Netflix together. Every couple of days, she would exchange emails with Marianne. She went to the aquatic centre three times a week.

On a Thursday afternoon in February, she met Dempsey to play tennis. They hadn’t seen each other since before Christmas.

“My family spent Christmas in Paris once, just to try it,” Dempsey said, as they packed up their equipment courtside. “My mother thought it was too dirty.”

“I wouldn’t call it dirty,” Héloïse said. “Gritty, more like.”

Dempsey huffed as she zipped her bag. “My mother thinks everything that she hasn’t carefully managed is dirty, so don’t take offence,” she said.

“How was your Christmas anyhow?” Héloïse asked her.

“As pleasant as it can be with a bunch of passive-aggressive, Republican relatives,” Dempsey said.

“I thought your parents were Democrats,” Héloïse said.

“Oh, just my father’s side of the family. They’re from Connecticut,” Dempsey said. “We spent this Christmas in  _ Virginia _ , with my mother’s side.  _ Hardcore  _ Republicans.” She rolled her eyes. “I think they only let my mother marry my father because of his money.” She hoisted her bag over one shoulder. “Shall we go back to my place after this?”

“Of course,” Héloïse said, knowing full well what agreeing would lead to.

They lay together afterwards, with Dempsey propped up high on pillows, while Héloïse was laying back as low as possible, practically sinking into the bed. She couldn’t remember if they ever cuddled. Héloïse observed Dempsey, with her pin-straight brown hair, her hazel eyes, and her picture perfect skin. In all areas of her life, she was demanding, vocal, and never made herself vulnerable.

Dempsey was wearing her glasses and was scrolling on her phone. She noticed Héloïse. “What are you staring at?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re available next, next Saturday, right? For my birthday party at the Waldorf Astoria?” Dempsey was turning thirty.

“Yes, I am,” Héloïse said.

“Okay, good, because my parents are going to be there,” Dempsey said. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your parents?” Héloïse let the question hang in the air, watching as Dempsey absorbed its implications.

“Dude, no, not like that.” Dempsey laughed. “They just ask a lot of questions and they get antsy when they’re in the midwest. You’re like, a tall, hot Frenchwoman. They’ll love you.”

Héloïse frowned. She hadn’t meant to sound hopeful.

“Hey, we’re friends, right?” Dempsey asked her. “I just want you to humour my parents for a night.” She took off her glasses and put her phone away.

Early in the morning, with Dempsey sound asleep, Héloïse rolled out of bed, removed her phone from its charger, pulled on some clothes and snuck out to Dempsey’s living room. She sat on the couch and fidgeted with her phone, debating with herself on whether or not she should call someone. She needed to talk to someone. She scrolled through her contacts on WhatsApp, and knowing that Hannah would be angry at her for calling so early in the morning, she called Marianne instead. As soon as she pressed the call button, she realised that she was always going to end up calling Marianne anyway.

Marianne’s first question was: “Is everything okay?”

“Couldn’t I just be calling for a chat?” Héloïse shot back.

“It’s five AM where you are,” Marianne said. “So,  _ is  _ everything okay?”

“Do you remember what I wrote to you in one of our first emails to each other?” Héloïse asked. “After I moved to America.”

“Yes,” Marianne responded, almost curtly. “Why?”

“That was over four years ago,” Héloïse said. “Why didn’t we ever start something? You and me.”

Marianne didn’t reply for a few seconds. “What do you mean by that?”

“We talk all the time. We know what’s going on with each other’s lives. We never lost touch. I don’t know why we didn’t start something, or just keep going with what we started in Brest,” Héloïse said.

Marianne let out a bitter chuckle. “What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you remember? You were going to be away for so long, you didn’t want to be in a relationship. It was your decision,” she said.

“I don’t remember that you disagreed,” Héloïse said.

“I didn’t  _ disagree _ , but I could have put up a better fight,” Marianne admitted.

“So why didn’t you?”

Marianne sighed heavily, the sound of it tickling Héloïse’s ear, even from thousands of kilometres away. “Héloïse,” she said softly, “why are we talking about this now?” When she didn’t answer, Marianne said her name again, and then asked: “Are you crying?”

That was when Héloïse realised that tears were rolling down her face. She wiped them hastily, and looked around the empty living room, almost embarrassed at the thought of someone seeing her. She sniffed. “Forget I said anything,” she said. “I’m just in a weird headspace right now.”

“Headspace,” Marianne repeated, drawing attention to Héloïse mingling the English term with her French. “How American.” There was only fondness in her voice. “Look, you know what you mean to me. You’re my favourite person in the world. When you said, all those years ago, that you didn’t want to start anything, I wanted to persuade you but I respected you. I respected that that was a risk you didn’t want to take.”

“But?” Héloïse prompted shakily.

“No buts.” Marianne took a deep breath. “Things are different now, for you and for me.” She paused, and the thought of the unmentioned Catherine filled the silence. “You’ve got to respect that, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Héloïse said.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Marianne said, so sincere that it made Héloïse want to sob. “But I think you need some sleep. I’ll message you later, all right? Look after yourself.” She hung up.

Héloïse put the rest of her clothes on, gathered her things, and left Dempsey’s apartment. She walked home. She didn’t answer Dempsey’s texts or calls. She went to the courts on a different afternoon and found a new person to play tennis with. She didn’t attend Dempsey’s birthday party. She didn’t see Dempsey again.

* * *

Fortunately, there was plenty of work to get lost in. Héloïse had just under three months until her dissertation needed to be submitted and defended. Her professors were encouraging; her friends, being in the same boat, supportive. There was less Netflix and more sitting together around the repurposed dining table they placed in their reading room, surrounded by piles of books, legal pads, and a frequently refilled cafetiѐre.

On top of that, she had her teaching as well. She had an undergrad class that semester, a special second-year seminar on the politics of contemporary French literature. Héloïse liked teaching as much as she liked research, perhaps even more. She liked being able to get students to practice thinking, talking and eventually writing using the knowledge they covered in class.

Marianne made an effort to contact her often, more often than before, but Héloïse, still feeling the sting from their phone call, would give noncommittal responses. It was difficult, but she wanted to distance herself from Marianne. Every time she read Marianne’s words, she felt like her heart was going to burst, and it was a feeling that she couldn’t afford to feel.

When Héloïse needed to blow off steam, she went to the pools.

“Haven’t seen Dempsey around in a while,” Hannah commented, as her and Héloïse got out of the pool and headed to the showers.

Héloïse shrugged. She yanked her swimming cap off.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” Hannah said.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Héloïse said. “She wasn’t a pleasant person to be around with most of the time.”

Hannah nodded understandingly. “Well, you didn't seem that happy with her." And that was the last she said about it.

Later that day, Héloïse met with her supervisor. They read over her latest chapter together.

He closed his laptop. “What are your plans after you finish here?”

There was palpable anxiety among Héloïse and her friends about their prospects after graduation. So far, it was only Alice who had a concrete plan: a research fellowship at Sapienza in Rome, but even that was only for a semester. The rest of them had no idea what they were going to be doing after Northwestern, and at their lowest times, they couldn’t help feeling that all the work they had been putting in was going to be for nothing.

“I still don’t know, actually,” Héloïse said.

“Are you planning on returning to France?”

“For the time being, probably. If I don’t get a job here, I can’t stay here on my visa,” Héloïse said.

“Do you want to teach in France?” her supervisor asked.

Héloïse considered it. She liked America, and liked how the academics here were less afraid of pushing boundaries and exploring new frontiers, but she  _ did  _ find herself missing France. “I think I could do something different, something special in France, if given the opportunity,” she responded.

“There’s a conference at Yale two weeks from now, just over a long weekend,” the supervisor told her. “You should come with me. I think it would be a good place to consider your options.”

* * *

Héloïse turned thirty-three nine days before she had to defend her dissertation.

She returned home from the library to find her friends gathered in the kitchen, making pizzas. Usually, they went on for dinner on their birthdays, but looming deadlines meant that they refrained from going anywhere that wasn’t the university. Daniel gave her a hug and handed her a bottle of beer. He was wearing one of Héloïse’s aprons. “Happy birthday,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Alice threw her arms around Héloïse and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “We’re taking a leaf out of your book with these pizzas.” She gestured to the messy kitchen counter. “We’re not even going to try making your dough, though.”

Héloïse laughed. “Thank you,” she said again.

“Wait, Hannah’s got something to show you,” Daniel said. “Hannah!”

Hannah walked into the kitchen, carrying a corkboard. Pinned on the corkboard were photographs of Héloïse, mostly with them and other people from university, and some of Héloïse by herself, reading or writing or delivering a presentation. There was a particularly funny one of Héloïse slumped over a pile of books at the library, a pencil stuck behind her ear, just about trapped in her unruly hair. And then there was a photograph that Héloïse hadn’t seen in a while.

“Where did you guys find that?” She rested her finger on it. She was younger in the photograph, clad in an emerald green blouse that she didn’t ever wear again.

“Google,” Hannah said. “That profile you and your mother did for French  _ Vanity Fair _ .”

“Goodness, that was so long ago,” Héloïse said. In her mind she saw the bedroom that Marianne stayed in, with its odd collection of furniture. She saw Marianne sitting on her stool, looking at her through her camera’s viewfinder. Héloïse swallowed. She tore her eyes away from the photograph. “Shall we put these pizzas in the oven?”

Her friends erupted in refusals.

“Nonsense!” Daniel said. “You go sit down, we’re looking after you tonight, all right? Alice, Alice,” he called on their other housemate, “you take the board and take Héloïse away from here, please. Hannah, come help me.”

Alice took the corkboard from Hannah, and with her free hand, led Héloïse away from the kitchen.

A few days after that, Héloïse and Hannah were at home together. Alice and Daniel were both at the university teaching.

Héloïse was tweaking a difficult paragraph in her chapter when Hannah started to make an awful lot of noise. First, she moaned loudly as she stretched her back and arms, and then, second, she pushed back on her chair, its legs scraping on the floor. It caused Héloïse to look up from her laptop. “What’s up with you?” she asked.

“I’m sick of this.” Hannah shut her laptop emphatically. “Let’s go out for ramen.”

They went to their favourite ramen place in Evanston, which Hannah argued was just as good as any of the ramen places in Chicago. Creatures of habit, they ordered the same thing every single time. When the piping hot bowls were set in front of them, they dug in immediately. Eating ramen required opposite decorum to the foods that Héloïse grew up eating, which is probably why she loved it. With the chopsticks in her left hand, she pulled the noodles to her mouth, and slurped the soup with the spoon in her right. It was noisy, and it occasionally splattered, but that was part of the fun of it.

“Is it weird? To be a grad student in Illinois when you’re practically a celebrity in France?” Hannah asked. In all their years of friendship, she had made small comments about it, but she didn’t ask questions, getting the sense that Héloïse wasn’t really up to talking about it. Dissertation deadlines, and their impending graduation, may have changed her approach, however.

“I’m not a celebrity.”

“Celebrity-adjacent,” Hannah said.

“It doesn’t feel any different. My family has money, but nearly everyone in our programme has wealthy parents, too,” Héloïse said.

“Yes, but no one else had a multi-page spread in  _ Vanity Fair _ ,” Hannah said.

“They practically did that as a favour to my mother, after all the stuff that happened to my family. The media will do whatever it takes to have your story,” Héloïse said. 

Hannah blinked. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset, exactly. I just want to give you a bit of context.” Héloïse shrugged. “I didn’t want to do it at first, even if Maman seemed like she was going to keep guilting me into staying home with her. I was set on keeping a low profile, you know? It helped that Maman never took Papa’s last name.”

Hannah examined her face thoughtfully. “So how come you changed your mind?”

“The photographer, Marianne, I -” Héloïse paused. “Having her there offered a way out for me.”

“Wait, the same Marianne that you always talk to? The one you spent last Christmas with?” Hannah leaned back in her seat, absentmindedly patting her stomach. She smiled slyly at Héloïse. “There’s history,” she said simply.

It had always been something that Héloïse had kept for herself. She hardly even reminisced about it with Marianne. When they talked, they kept focus on the present, and what lay ahead. It wasn’t that the topic was taboo for either of them. They didn’t talk about it because of a silent, mutual understanding of its power. Héloïse chose to do her remembering alone. She had bottled the memory, and kept it tucked away, but each time she looked at it, she would find that it had grown wild, and even more beautiful.

Héloïse told Hannah everything she could, and enjoyed the release that came with remembering aloud.

* * *

_ Marianne, _

_ I hope you’re well. I saw your photographs from Florence and it looks like you had a good time. _

_ I’ve attached photographs from my graduation. You may recognise my friends Hannah, Daniel and Alice. We celebrated all night long but I feel relief most of all, and I think they feel the same. Five years of hard work, finally culminated. _

_ I have some news… Two days ago I had an interview over Skype for a junior lecturer position with the University of Lyon. I found out about it when I went to that conference at Yale University with my supervisor. The morning of graduation, they got back to me and said that they wanted to offer me the job. We haven’t worked out the specifics of which department I’ll be placed in, because of staff reshuffling, but it’s looking like it’s between Lyon 3 and Jean Monnet. _

_ I hope you don’t think it’s strange that after all this time, I would end up where you are. _

_ Héloïse _

* * *

They moved out of the deceased professor’s house two weeks after graduation. They sold or donated the furniture and most of the books that they no longer wanted. Alice invited them to spend a week at her family’s cabin in the Oregon forest. There, the four of them had some well-deserved fun before heading back to their respective hometowns.

Héloïse returned to the family home in Brest. Her mother was filming another project, so she spent most of her days alone. For understandable reasons, she didn’t touch a book for weeks. Nor did she touch her laptop. She swam and surfed. She watched a lot of Netflix. She got in touch with Sophie and spent time with her. She tried to replicate her favourite Japanese dishes that she cooked with Hannah back in Evanston. When she did look at her phone, it was to answer messages from Marianne, or to contribute to the group chat she had with her friends.

Upon speaking to her superiors at the University of Lyon, she learned that she would be based at Jean Monnet, which meant that she was going to live in Saint-Etienne. She moved there in the first week of August. Once she arrived at her apartment, she sent Marianne a message.

Marianne replied immediately. Not even twenty minutes later, she showed up at Héloïse’s doorstep. “There’s an Ikea here, you know,” she said, surveying Héloïse’s empty living room.

“I don’t really want to accumulate stuff,” Héloïse said.

“You still need a dining table, at least,” Marianne said. “Maybe a couch. We can take my car.”

They got into Marianne’s car and drove to Ikea. They got out of there two hours later, with a dining table, a bookcase, a desk, and a delivery slip for a bed, a couch and chairs. Marianne also purchased tea towels and various other kitchenware for Héloïse.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Héloïse told her, as they unloaded Marianne’s car.

“Well, you’re not going to have a housewarming, but I’m giving you a housewarming present anyway,” Marianne said.

“Speaking of presents, isn’t it your birthday next week?”

Marianne’s brow furrowed. “Don’t remind me. I’m going to be thirty-three,” she said.

“ _ I’m  _ thirty-three,” Héloïse said. “It’s fine. The world hasn’t ended.”

It took two trips to get everything into the apartment. Marianne fished out a multitool from her bag and proceeded to open the packaging for the dining table.

Héloïse watched Marianne. She put her hands on her hips. “Oh, okay, we’re assembling right now?”

“I’m  _ great  _ at assembling flatpack furniture,” Marianne said, kneeling on the floor and unfolding the instructions. She frowned down at the piece of paper, and Héloïse noticed that she  _ did  _ look oddly determined to get to work. “It’ll make this place look less empty.”

Héloïse looked around her apartment. It  _ was  _ awfully bare. When she was living in Paris, her apartment was similarly spartan, but that was so long ago already, and Héloïse found herself nostalgic for her shared house in Evanston instead. There, she left her housemates to decide on how to furnish and decorate the house, and she just got accustomed to it. “I could put some of your photographs on the wall,” she said to Marianne. She thought about buying plants as well, like Alice would.

Marianne looked up from the floor to examine the space. “Yeah, I’ll bring some over next time,” she said.

“Thanks.” Héloïse sat down on the floor next to her. She aimlessly fussed with the little bags of screws. “Are you doing anything for your birthday?”

“No,” Marianne said.

“I’m sure Catherine will want to do something,” Héloïse said, though she wasn't actually sure.

Marianne put the instructions down. She shifted herself so that she was sitting cross-legged on the floor. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and then took a deep breath. Eyes on the floor, she picked at a loose thread on the right cuff of her pants. “Catherine and I are no longer together,” she said, so quietly that Héloïse almost didn’t hear her.

“Oh.” Héloïse’s breath caught. “Since when?”

“Six days, a week ago,” Marianne said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were busy with moving across the damn country. It was a big drive for you, and you were occupied in getting all your things sorted before you had to come here,” Marianne said. “I didn’t want to be a distraction.”

Héloïse frowned. “I didn’t even know that you two were having troubles,” she said.

“Maybe that was the problem. She and I didn't care enough to have troubles.” Marianne sighed. “Anyway, it’s part of the reason why I don’t even want to think about my birthday. We can just go to dinner somewhere, you and me. Maybe we can go up to Lyon?”

“Sure, that sounds good,” Héloïse said.

Marianne picked up the instructions again and pushed them towards Héloïse. “Now help me decipher this,” she said.

“I thought you were the flatpack furniture expert,” Héloïse joked.

“You’re the  _ doctor _ ,” Marianne retorted.

Dining table assembled, Héloïse and Marianne walked down to the nearby shops and found a place that sold kebabs. They brought their food back to the apartment and ate together.

“Is it weird that I live in Saint-Etienne now?” Héloïse asked.

“Why would it be weird?” Marianne asked in return, after swallowing a mouthful of kebab.

“You know…” Héloïse gestured vaguely.

“Listen, I'm always grateful to have you in my life, and even more so now that you’re just a ten-minute drive away,” Marianne told Héloïse.

“And I get to be here for your birthday,” Héloïse said.

“Yes, you’ll be here for my birthday.” Marianne was grinning. “First time ever.”

“We’ll make it a good one,” Héloïse told her.

Marianne nodded. “I’m counting on it.”

* * *

That first semester at Jean Monnet passed eventfully. Héloïse had her hands full. She taught a first year introductory English literature class, and was given an opportunity to design her own third year seminar. She created a class based on her doctoral dissertation, on the notion of time in storytelling, but the reading list was exclusively in English, supplemented with excerpts from French literature. Unlike the first year class, she didn’t have a TA for the seminar, so she did everything herself, including the grading and the photocopying. Besides the teaching, her mentor in the department encouraged her to prepare a paper that she could submit to the journals.

It was a challenge for Héloïse. Back at the Sorbonne, and at Northwestern, even when she taught classes on her own, she had plenty of guidance, and much of the material was already prepared for her. While her first year syllabus had been taught for years, preparing for the third year seminar was demanding. It was exhausting, but she dove into it fully. She considered herself fortunate to still be able to get steady, full-time work in academia.

She was finding her feet socially at work, but outside it, she spent time with Marianne. Marianne was right; it was great to finally be in the same city, after years of long-distance friendship. They didn’t see each other frequently, as Marianne travelled a lot for work and Héloïse put long hours in at the university, but when they did, it was nice not to have the obstacles of distance and time and technology. Marianne showed her around Saint-Etienne. They went to the movies together. Héloïse cooked Japanese food for her. They browsed used bookstores. Héloïse dreaded that it would be weird between them, after everything that had transpired earlier in the year, but she worried for nothing.

The holidays came and went. Héloïse went to Brest, and Marianne went to Paris. Héloïse returned to start the new semester at Jean Monnet. One day, after shutting for office hours, her phone alerted her to an email from Daniel. His book, adapted from his dissertation, was being launched by the Northwestern University Press, and he would like his celebration in Evanston to be a reunion of their group of friends. He even managed to rent a house for a week, for all of them to stay in.

Daniel’s email ended with a cheeky postscript:  _ Hannah tells me that Saint-Etienne, coincidentally, is where your Marianne also happens to live. Tell her she’s invited, too. _

It was a crazy suggestion and Héloïse wanted to tell Daniel that. Why would Marianne think of accompanying her to her friend’s book launch on the other side of the Atlantic? Yet there was something in Héloïse that encouraged her to take the chance.

* * *

“This is what they call spring?” Marianne looked around her. It was muggy, with grey skies in Chicago. “Why does everything look so dead still?”

“It takes a while,” Héloïse said, amused at Marianne’s reaction. “And then suddenly, you wake up, and it hits thirty degrees and you don’t see a single cloud for two months. You’d wish for this kind of weather again.”

Everyone else was already at the modern, two-storey Evanston rental when they arrived, unsurprisingly in the middle of a heated discussion while gathered around the dining table. Alice practically jumped into Héloïse’s arms. Daniel gave her a bear hug. Hannah screamed in delight upon seeing Héloïse, kissing her cheek repeatedly.

She introduced Marianne to them.

“Ah, the  _ photographer  _ who shot Héloïse and her mother for  _ Vanity Fair _ ,” Alice said, earning herself a nudge in the ribs from Héloïse.

“You know about that?” Marianne asked, in her soft, hesitant English. “That was years ago.”

“You’re very talented,” Alice said.

“And isn’t Héloïse’s mom such a hoot to be around?” Daniel asked.

Marianne had started to blush. “Thank you.”

Hannah, thankfully, as always, knew how to shift the conversation in a different direction. She placed a gentle hand on Marianne’s arm. “Hey, you had a long flight and I’m sure we’re very overwhelming at the moment. Why don’t you freshen up and rest? I’ll show you to your bedroom.” she asked.

“Okay,” Marianne said. She followed Hannah upstairs.

Minutes later, Hannah returned, beaming. “Wow, Héloïse, she’s  _ lovely _ ,” she said. “So what’s the deal with you guys?”

“Nothing’s ‘the deal.’” Héloïse rolled her eyes at the English slang.

“Really?” Alice asked. “I definitely got a vibe. Daniel, you got a vibe?”

Daniel pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose while humming in assent.

“A  _ vibe _ ?” Héloïse sighed. “We’re friends, she has a bit of a break from work and thought it would be nice to come along and have a vacation, all right?” She gestured at the beer bottles on the table. “Now, what were you guys talking about and who’s gonna get me a beer?”

“On it.” Hannah went to the fridge and then pressed a cold beer bottle into Héloïse’s hand. “Have you read Sally Rooney’s  _ Conversations with Friends _ ?” When Héloïse nodded, Hannah’s eyes glinted with excitement. “Okay, so she’s got a new book coming out at the end of the summer, and we’re trying to decide on whether she’s the real deal or if it’s just social media hype.”

“Hype,” Alice said dismissively. “Her characters are somewhat interesting, but her prose is pedestrian and no one seems to learn from their bad decisions. She’ll probably get a Netflix deal and become a millionaire and never write another book again.”

“I disagree. I think she has mastered this way of writing setpieces that probe at twenty-first century social and emotional dynamics,” Daniel contended. “Like, she has a real way of peeling apart the politics of a one-on-one interaction.”

“Yeah, I was reading that part where they’re in that holiday house in France, and there was a bit of the conversation over dinner that made me feel a bit of secondhand embarrassment, but in the best way possible, like I'm actually there with them, you know?” Hannah said. “And  _ I  _ hope she writes more books."

“I think it reflects poorly on her writing that all these Instagram influencers are posing with her novel,” Alice said.

Daniel gasped. “Alice, are you being an  _ elitist _ ?”

“Surprise, surprise!” Hannah just about howled.

“Dickens was popular in his day, so was Austen, even if her works weren’t published under name while she was living,” Héloïse said. “Are you saying that an author has to be disregarded by her contemporary audience to be considered credible? Because, if so...” She started bouncing the balls off her feet on the floor, falling into the rhythm of the discussion. She couldn’t resist smiling. She had missed this.

When they had exhausted their conversation about Sally Rooney, Héloïse got updated on their lives. Daniel, who had attracted attention with his upcoming book, managed to get a teaching position at Temple University in Philadelphia. Alice finished her fellowship at Sapienza and started another one at McGill University in Montreal. Hannah, who had perhaps the most niche academic interest of the four of them, was sought after by University of Southern California, who wanted her to teach a senior seminar on comic books. Everyone, in some way or another, ended up somewhere they were satisfied.

* * *

Daniel’s book launch was held at the university, and so Héloïse was swept away in an impromptu reunion with her professors, former classmates, and even students. Every once in a while, in the middle of a conversation, she would catch a glimpse of Marianne. She fit in perfectly with Héloïse’s friends, matching their sense of humour beat for beat, and even readily joined in their spirited discussions about film and literature and art. Héloïse had no doubt that Marianne would quickly find a way to make herself comfortable in any situation. That was her strength.

Marianne walked around the room, camera around her neck. She was taking photographs of Daniel when he addressed to the attendees, and she had also taken photographs of their group of friends afterwards. She circled the room, making small talk with people, but also just quietly observing them, her eyes perpetually alert.

Héloïse approached Marianne and Daniel. They were having a conversation in French. She couldn’t help smiling at Daniel’s rounded, American vowels. His German accent was definitely better.

Daniel was holding a champagne flute in one hand, which he raised towards Héloïse. He continued talking in French: “Hey, I was just telling Marianne about the first time we spoke to each other in class. You know, that time when you were writing notes so quickly, that you moved your hand and it smudged ink on your page, and you were like,” he hunched his shoulders and stuck his bottom lip out, in a fair impression of Héloïse.

Marianne had been laughing when Héloïse had first seen them, and she laughed again.

“You right-handers will  _ never  _ understand my struggle,” Héloïse said.

Marianne put her hand on Héloïse’s shoulder. “Aw, look, Daniel, she’s pouting again.”

They laughed.

A woman approached Daniel, causing him to turn to Héloïse and Marianne. He switched to English. “I’ll see you guys later, all right? I just gotta catch up with some people.” With a small salute, he followed the woman to the other side of the room, leaving Héloïse and Marianne by themselves.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Héloïse asked

Marianne smiled. “Yes. It’s good to speak to Daniel. I was starting to run out of English with the others,” she said.

Héloïse laughed. “I’m sure you were managing just fine.”

“This is great. I’m glad you asked me to come along,” Marianne told her.

“Yeah.” Héloïse met Marianne’s eyes. She nodded. “Me too.”

When the evening wrapped up, Daniel invited people back to their rental. Once they got there, Héloïse and Marianne helped Daniel, Alice and Hannah serve drinks and snacks for about a dozen other people.

“I’ll put the music on,” Héloïse told Daniel.

“No Sufjan Stevens!” Daniel called out, with Marianne clearly in earshot.

Héloïse ignored him. She took a few minutes to figure out how the sound system worked. She connected her phone to it using Bluetooth and chose a playlist she had made last year, when they were all still students living together. She watched as Hannah roped a few people in to moving the furniture with her, clearing the living room floor.

“Oh, we’re dancing,” Marianne said, amused. “Bookworms like to dance?”

“Of course we do.” Héloïse took Marianne by the hand and led her onto the dance floor. Together, they moved to the beat of the music. She laced her arms around Marianne’s neck and shoulders, and Marianne placed her hands on Héloïse’s waist. They both laughed; they couldn’t help it. It felt silly.

But Héloïse would be lying if she said that it didn’t feel right.

* * *

She opened her eyes the next morning to the sight of Marianne sleeping beside her. The house Daniel had rented only had three bedrooms, so Alice and Hannah shared a room, and it was obvious that Héloïse would share one with Marianne.

It had been making Héloïse’s stomach feel funny, though, waking up with Marianne next to her. That wasn’t a position she found herself in, not since Brest.

She got out of bed and quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Everyone else was still asleep, on account of Daniel’s little afterparty not winding down until nearly four in the morning. Héloïse had been waking up earlier than them anyway, as she hadn’t adjusted to the time difference yet. There was nothing in the pantry but toast. She made coffee, and she found jam and butter in the fridge. By the time she was ready to sit and eat at the dining table, Marianne came downstairs.

“Breakfast,” Héloïse said, gesturing at the plate of toast in front of her.

Marianne grabbed a mug from the drawers and poured herself some coffee from the cafetiѐre. She scraped butter onto her toast, and then spread the jam. After finishing her first piece, she washed it down with some coffee. “It looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”

Héloïse looked out the window and saw that the sun was out, with just wisps of clouds in the sky. “We can go see the beach,” she said.

“The beach?”

“Well, it’s the shore of Lake Michigan,” Héloïse said. “Close enough.”

Nobody else had woken up after breakfast, so Héloïse and Marianne put their jackets on and headed outside. They took the bus to Evanston’s small downtown, and then walked along the park, stopping frequently so that Marianne could take photographs. It was a Thursday morning, a work day, so the park wasn’t busy. They sat on a bench and watched a young family playing in the distance.

“Take a deep breath,” Héloïse told Marianne. “Smell the air.”

Marianne did so. “What about it?”

“It’s fresh water. It doesn’t smell salty at all,” Héloïse said. “It’s a different kind of beautiful, but it makes me miss Bretagne.”

“In Bretagne, when you’re close enough to the sea, it’s all you can hear,” Marianne said.

“Do you remember Le Minou?” Héloïse asked. As soon as she said it, she immediately kicked herself for asking the question.  _ She  _ hadn’t forgotten Le Minou. In fact, she  _ often  _ thought about Le Minou, but she didn’t know if she wanted to hear Marianne’s answer. The last time she had asked Marianne if she remembered something from that time in Brest, she had made things weird between them.

Marianne leaned back on the bench. A multitude of emotions crossed her face. She looked out into the distance for a bit, her eyes scanning the surroundings. She took a deep breath and finally spoke: “Isn’t it funny, that when you look at it a different way, relationships—all relationships, not just romantic ones—are a collection of memories you create and remember?”

Héloïse nodded, prompting for her to continue.

“Half of your relationship is making the memory, and the other one is reminding each other about it,” Marianne said. “You never tell the exact same story each time, and you remember different things to what the other person remembers, so it’s like you’re creating a new story every time you tell it.”

“You’re starting to sound like Alice,” Héloïse half-joked.

“I may do.” Marianne shrugged. “But I’ve noticed it with your friends as well. At dinner the other night, at that ramen restaurant, I wanted to count the times that one of you started a sentence with ‘Do you remember,’ or with ‘Remember when.’ And,” she smiled at Héloïse, “and I’m not saying that because I felt left out, because I didn’t… I think your friends are great people, and listening to you guys talk to each other, it made me realise how much love is about remembering.”

Héloïse’s mouth went dry. “Marianne -” she began.

Abruptly, Marianne got to her feet. She began to walk away, but stopped after a few steps. She shoved her hands in her pockets, and kept her back turned away from Héloïse.

“Where are you going?” Héloïse asked.

Marianne turned around and approached Héloïse, so that she was standing in front of her, but she didn’t make a move to sit down. “ _ Of course _ I remember Le Minou,” she said. She scuffed the toe of her sneaker against the grass. “Love  _ is _ about remembering, but I want it to be looking at what’s ahead, too.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You know what I’m trying to say.” Marianne turned her head slightly, avoiding Héloïse’s eyes.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” Héloïse told her.

Still not looking at Héloïse, Marianne sighed. “That shouldn't stop us.” She paused, frowning as she considered her next words. “Remember the car ride back from Le Minou? We got into a stalemate. We didn't speak to each other for hours. It felt like forever.”

Héloïse stood up. She thought of putting her hands on Marianne’s shoulders, to get her to look at her directly, but decided against it. She didn’t want to make Marianne feel uneasy. She wanted to go at her pace. Her next words came out easier than she ever expected them to: “Marianne, I love you.”

Marianne’s eyes widened as they finally met Héloïse’s. “What?”

“We’re getting too comfortable here, and it’s not where we should be,” Héloïse said. “I love you, and I want you to know that, because I don’t want to be in love with anyone else but you.”

“Héloïse…” Marianne raked her hand through her hair. “Are you sure?”

This time, Héloïse didn’t hesitate. She placed gentle hands on Marianne’s arms, and looked her straight in the eyes. “You're right. I’m tired of just remembering things. I want to see what’s ahead of us.” She swallowed nervously. “Do you feel the same way?”

In response, Marianne leaned forward and kissed her.

Héloïse’s hands moved from Marianne’s arms to cup her face. She had taken a step forward in the process, pressing their bodies together. Marianne’s hands were on her hips, holding her in place. Her lips were slightly chapped from the breeze, but Héloïse didn’t care, as hers were the same way. The memories rushed back to Héloïse—Le Minou, her family home, everything in between—but there was something different, too. The spark of a new beginning.

They stood there, kissing, in this park in Evanston, for a long moment, until someone wolf-whistled.

Marianne pulled away sheepishly, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

Héloïse, on the other hand, glared in the direction of the wolf-whistler. She took Marianne’s hand, and interlaced their fingers together. There were still things to talk about, feelings to figure out, decisions to make, but while they were here, Héloïse just wanted to enjoy it. She liked Marianne’s conception of love. People created together so that they could have something to remember later on. She wasn’t prepared to do that before because she couldn’t articulate what it was. But laid out in front of her now, she realised that she was finally ready. “I think we should head back to the house,” she said. 

Marianne looked down at their locked hands, and back up at Héloïse. “Yes, I think so, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> While I was writing this, I realised how many of my fics follow the same tropes: two people learning to be emotionally honest, lots of discussions about books and/or politics, at least one of the characters is a writer/teacher/photographer, and there's some travelling involved!
> 
> Songs that I listened to while writing: "I Am Easy to Find" by The National, "Let's Get Lost" and "Happy Not Knowing" by Carly Rae Jepsen, "The Promise" by When In Rome.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading this. Tell me your thoughts in the comment!


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